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Ever craved the validation of a roaring crowd? Wished for the instant fame some artists achieve? This poem explores the disillusionment that can follow early encouragement, the sting of rejection, and the quiet defiance that fuels the creative spirit.

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I now know how Kafka felt in the early years,
Van Gogh’s insecurity and his hidden fears,
I was told that I had the gift, that I could write,
Now I understand that there are shades of grey here, all is not black and white.

Recognition eludes me, no one appreciates me, I’m a total wreck,
My so-called friend… you swore that I would make a fortune,
Gather a bloody fan following, glory and riches but everything eludes me,
You seemingly delude me, all I wish to do is throttle your neck.

Promises and dreams, once bright, now feel like a cruel jest,
I toil and I struggle, giving everything my best,
But the echoes of applause fade before they reach my ears,
I’m drowning in obscurity, suffocated by my fears.

Yet still, I write, I paint, I pour my soul into the night,
Hoping someday, somehow, the world will see my light.
For in the depths of despair, creativity finds its voice,
And maybe, just maybe, one day they’ll hear my choice.

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